Although sleep had restored her supply of magical energy, she still felt listless. With no sample of the toxin and no guidance, Wren could give Hal no formal diagnosis and no effective treatment. And while he deserved to know the truth behind his illness, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him just yet. Why worry him or give him more reason to doubt her? He was stable, and that was all that mattered.

At least until overuse ran her magic dry.

Despair, however, fixed nothing. She refused to give up until she’s exhausted her every lead. The night she’d arrived, she’d noticed the extensive selection of medical books in Lowry’s library. Perhaps that included a guide to medicinal—or poisonous—plants.

Wren’s magic flickered out just as Hal heaved a long, unimpeded sigh. Night had unfurled over the mountains now, flooding through the window like the dark burble of a river. She lit the candles drooping in their waxy copper dishes.

A blade of fire danced on the end of the match, and of all things to sink her in grief, it was the smell of it. Here in the wavering dark of Colwick Hall, she could almost hear Byers: Got a light, Southerland?

The flame singed her finger, jolting her back into the present. She swore and shook out the match.

“Are you alright?” The light brushed gold over his features, as stark and shining as those of an icon of a saint. What threw her most, however, was the earnestness in his expression.

“I’m fine.” Steadying herself, she said, “I think I’ll have a diagnosis for you soon.”

Hal glanced up at her, startled. “Really?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “If anyone other than me brings you anything to eat, don’t take it, alright?”

Before he could ask any questions, she took one of the candles and slipped into the hallway.

Halfway down the staircase, a strange feeling bloomed cold at the base of her skull. Like the pressure of a thousand eyes boring into her—or the faint stirring of magic within her. Was someone hurt?

Wren glanced back up toward Hal’s room. Surely he hadn’t keeled over in the few seconds she’d been gone. It felt as if her magic urged her onward, downward. The shadows eddied around her skirts like a current: go.

She took one step. Another.

Then stopped dead.

Slowly at first, a moan welled up from below her.

“Hello?” she called, barely above a whisper. “Hannah? Lord Lowry?”

It crescendoed until it tore through her every nerve like shears. She knew that sound—the same one from yesterday morning. For a few seconds, she stood frozen, staring blearily into the whispering flicker of the candlelight.

Some folk would tell you it’s haunted.